<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>The Wolf of Quiet Creek by AnarchistTypewriter</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27282880">The Wolf of Quiet Creek</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnarchistTypewriter/pseuds/AnarchistTypewriter'>AnarchistTypewriter</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 16:55:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,559</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27282880</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnarchistTypewriter/pseuds/AnarchistTypewriter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The small town of Quiet Creek is beautiful in October. Though its fields lie empty, and its forests have all shed their leaves, there is some irresistible charm about its quaint streets and neat little homes, set against the backdrop of endless farms and woods, all standing cold and still. Elaine, a closeted trans girl in her senior year of high school, is sent to the town because she hides a dark secret. Will the town save her, or will her problems destroy her, and those around her, all over again?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Wolf of Quiet Creek</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Elaine stares absently out the window of her mom’s car, watching the endless, empty fields crawling by. Just a month ago, they would have been full of wheat and sunflowers, but now they lie empty, awaiting the arrival of winter. The radio mumbles quietly about local news, while Elaine’s mom watches the road ahead, tense frown on her face.</p><p>“Look, it’s just going to be a few months-” She starts to speak in that obnoxious diplomatic tone of hers, but Elaine interrupts:</p><p>“You’re just sending me away because you’re scared of me.” </p><p>“That’s not it.”</p><p>“Then why?” </p><p>“We’re looking for a treatment for your condition, but until we find something, it’s best if you stay away from places with lots of people.” </p><p>“Because you’re ashamed of me.” </p><p>“Artyem, please stop putting words in my mouth.” </p><p>Elaine winces when she hears that name. </p><p>“I’m going to run away. You’ll never see me again.” She growls.</p><p>Mother sighs. “Look, you know I don’t want that. Things are difficult for everyone in the family right now, let’s just try to work together and not make each other’s lives any harder than they have to be, okay?” </p><p>Elaine doesn’t respond. They sit in silence the rest of the drive; endless, empty fields surrounding them, pale-brown in the late-October sun. </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Elaine wakes up with the realization that she must have drifted off, a bitter taste lingering in her mouth. Her eyes scan her surroundings slowly. She’s still in her mom’s old Toyota, but the landscape around her has changed. The car is sitting on a dirt driveway in front of a rickety three-story house, surrounded on all sides by trees. A gentle breeze rustles the few golden leaves remaining on their skeletal branches, then enters the car through the open driver’s door, tussling Elaine’s hair. Just outside the door, Elaine sees a face; her mother’s face. It frowns, as usual, slight wrinkles spreading from the corners of its mouth, like cracks in stone. “Get up. We’re here.” Mother says, before slamming the door and starting to walk towards the house. Elaine steps out of the car, scrambles to get her backpack and suitcase from the trunk, then runs to catch up. </p><p>The door lacks any sort of doorbell, handle or lock. Instead, an elaborate knocker in the shape of a cat’s head decorates it, sitting at the door’s centre and staring out at the driveway. A large, silver-coated ring is in the cat’s mouth, as time-worn as the rest of the house. The silver coating is chipped off entirely on the bottom third of the ring, revealing the brass beneath. Or maybe it’s copper? It must have been gripped, pulled or otherwise touched thousands of times over the years, judging by how worn down and darkened the metal is. </p><p>“Why are you staring? Just knock.” Elaine’s thoughts are interrupted by her mother’s exasperated voice. </p><p>“I can’t.” </p><p>“Don’t be a baby. Knock.” Every new word drips with more malice and frustration than the last. Elaine grits her teeth and grabs the bottom of the ring with two fingers, as if picking up a dead rat. She pulls the ring up, then taps it against the door. A deep, rumbling noise echoes through the house and the woods surrounding it. The house sounds incredibly deep and almost completely hollow; like an immense, ancient void. Elaine shudders, and from the corner of her eye she can see her mother’s frown growing bigger, pulling her entire face down. For a few moments, nothing can be heard but the rustling and rattling of bare branches in the surrounding woods. Then, a gentle footstep, and another, and another, slowly approaching the door. A clicking and a groaning is heard, then the door slowly creaks open, revealing a tall woman standing in a comfortable-looking, warmly lit hallway. </p><p>She looks simultaneously friendly and unsettling. Her hair is dark and long, with an occasional gray hair peeking through. It must have been beautiful once, but now looks aged and brittle, much like the body that wears it, and the house that body dwells in. The woman is wrapped in a warm, knit sweater that she wears over a floral dress. On her feet are a pair of bunny slippers, on her hands are half a dozen rings, and in her arms is an old and exhausted-looking ferret. Or is it a weasel? Elaine locks eyes with the furry critter, and Elaine’s mother stares blankly at the woman. All four are silent for a few moments, before the woman murmurs: “Good evening, Jenna. You look stressed as ever.” She shoots a glance at Elaine. “And you. You’ve grown so much since I last saw you. Do you still remember me?” </p><p>“Yes, I do. Good to see you again, aunt Evelyn.” Elaine's voice does a bad job of hiding her tiredness and frustration. Aunt Evelyn looks concerned, but before she can say anything, Mother cuts in. </p><p>“He needs to head up and start unpacking. We should talk in the meantime.” </p><p>“Alright, though I don’t see what the rush is. Let’s go to the kitchen.” She grabs Mother by the arm and walks with her down the hallway. As she walks, she looks over her shoulder and says: </p><p>“Your room’s upstairs, kid. First door on the right.” </p><p>And with that, Elaine is alone in the hallway. She looks around at the old wallpaper, bathed in the warm, orange light of the lightbulb in the ceiling. It depicts dancing skeletons, vampires and pumpkin-men and was clearly made to be put up in a child’s room. </p><p>“Good start. Love it already.” Elaine’s muttering echoes down the hallway as she pulls her phone out and takes a picture of the gaudy walls. She opens tumblr to post it, but finds that she has no internet connection. No wifi signals in range. Her data is unavailable too, as is her cell connection. Elaine sighs, and starts dragging her suitcase up the creaking stairs. </p><p>Her room is small and very empty. The walls are covered in the same wallpaper as the downstairs hallway, except it has an orange background, which is infinitely more hideous. At the left wall is a tall wardrobe. At the right wall is a simple bed. On the wall opposite the door is a window that looks out at the driveway. Elaine starts unpacking her suitcase. It’s mostly full of clothes, which she stuffs into the large wardrobe in the corner. They’re all dark colors and pretty gender-neutral, and they all cover up as much skin as possible. Once her suitcase is unpacked, she props it up next to the wardrobe, and begins unpacking her backpack. It holds even less than her suitcase did: a pencil case, some notebooks, a laptop, a few chargers and a small cloth sack containing a dice set. Elaine looks around for an outlet to charge her laptop from, and eventually finds one: an ancient-looking wall socket on the opposite side of the room from the bed. Once everything is unpacked and her laptop is charging, she sits down on the bed, pondering what she should do next. </p><p>She gets up to open the door, but hesitates. Going down now would mean listening to her mother talk about her condition, and watching her aunt’s face fill with disgust. She lays down on the floor instead, putting her ear to the cold, oak floorboards. </p><p>“It’s been a week since it first happened, and I don’t know when it’ll happen again or how to stop it.” </p><p>“What do the doctors say?” </p><p>“They’re stumped, every doctor I called thought we were lying, and the few that believed said they don’t know of any treatment.” </p><p>“What about priests?” </p><p>“We’ve called plenty of priests and exorcists, but none of them could help. I’ll be looking for someone who’s dealt with this kind of thing before, but until I find them, I thought it best that he stays here. You know, away from people.” </p><p>“I understand, sister. You can sleep soundly, he’ll be safe with me.” </p><p>“Thank you, Evelyn. I’ll be heading home now, call me if something happens.” </p><p>Elaine hears the two women get up and start walking out of the kitchen. Their footsteps echo loudly as they walk up the stairs, then grow soft again as they walk down the hall. Elaine stands up and pretends to be rifling through her backpack when the door opens. </p><p>“Artyem, I’m going now. Listen to your aunt, okay?” </p><p>“Yes mom, I will. Have a nice trip home.” Elaine says without turning around. There’s a few seconds of silence before the door closes and the two women make their way back down the stairs. </p><p>Hugs and goodbyes are exchanged on the front porch, then the old Toyota pulls out of the driveway. Elaine watches it disappear into the twilight and feels homesick. The house seems to get bigger and more decrepit around her as the full scope of her situation hits her. She’s going to have to live in this ancient, strange house with an equally ancient and strange woman, for God knows how long, while her mother talks to priests and other religious hacks about finding a way to “fix” her. She throws herself on the bed and pulls up a visual novel on her laptop, hoping to distract herself from the gnawing despair that comes with thinking about being out here, in the middle of nowhere. A few minutes pass, and there’s a knock on her door. Elaine closes her laptop and puts it down.</p><p>“Come in.” </p><p>Aunt Evelyn walks in, and her ferret scurries in after her. </p><p>“Hey, kiddo. I brought you some hot chocolate, as well as some towels. Shower’s down the hall, if you want to wash up.” She places a thermos and two big, green towels at the foot of the bed. </p><p>“Thanks, aunt Evelyn. Yeah, I’ll go in a few minutes.”</p><p>“It’s just Lyn.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Just call me Lyn. No need for all this “aunt” business, makes me feel old.” She smirks a bit, and picks up her ferret from the floor, who scurries up her arm and onto her shoulder. </p><p>“Alright. And what’s the ferret’s name? Or is he a weasel?” </p><p>“No, ferret’s correct. This little shithead is Gremlin, he lives with me, loves to scare me at night.” Lyn scratches the creature’s head gently. It responds with a strange giggling, chirping kind of noise, and nuzzles up against her neck. She suddenly looks at Elaine with a serious face, and asks: </p><p>“By the way, do you want to talk about your condition?” </p><p>Elaine shrinks back slightly. More than anything, she wishes she could disappear right now. </p><p>“Didn’t mom already tell you everything?” She manages to get out. </p><p>“She did, but I imagine she knows less about the situation than you do. After all, she’s a poor listener much of the time.” </p><p>“I guess. I don’t know, I’m tired. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.” </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Elaine zones out, leaving the rest of the conversation behind a wall of fog in the back of her head. She thinks of her family’s small apartment, and how much she misses its warmth, despite never truly fitting in there. She thinks of her friends, how they must be worried about her, how she should try and find a way to reach out. Though, are they really worried? They always did have a lot going on, each looking inwards, thinking about their own problems. Nobody seemed to mind that she was always quiet, always at the back of the group. Maybe they don’t actually care? Who could blame them, though. Why care about someone who’s too scared to even tell you their real name, or show their true face?</p><p>Elaine realizes she’s standing in the bathroom, staring at an elaborate mirror that hangs on the wall. Its gold-plated frame depicts tiny skeletons and woodland creatures that are all gesturing towards the center of the mirror, as if to say: “Look at this!” Much like the wallpapers in the house, it is gaudy, off putting, and ridiculous. Or is it kind of charming? No, no. Something can only be charming if it’s familiar, and this house feels anything but. </p><p>Elaine stares at her face, scrutinizing every detail, as she has done many times before. If your own face doesn’t depict who you really are, which of you is the liar? Bone and flesh cannot lie, after all. And yet… </p><p>Elaine tears herself away and turns towards the shower stall. A simple, short and wide porcelain tub sits on the ground. A showerhead shaped like a skull with an open mouth watches over it, mounted into the wall. A curtain hangs from a semi-circular rod overhead. Elaine unfurls it to look at the pattern, and discovers a flurry of tiny cartoon bats, smiling at her from the curtain. She rolls her eyes, and starts undressing. She pulls off her oversized, blue hoodie and drops it to the floor. Her jeans are next, followed by her socks and underwear. Though the house is completely foreign to her, something about getting naked right before a shower does feel comforting and familiar. Perhaps it’s something animalistic, some instinct that’s lodged deep in our brains. Mother nature must know the importance of hygiene, if she taught our ancestors to love washing up.</p><p>Elaine steps into the shower and closes the curtain. After a minute or two of fiddling with the knobs, she gets the temperature just right, and sits down on the shower floor, warm water running down her back. This comfort, however, fades away quickly, as Elaine starts feeling a dull ache spreading through her bones. She opens her eyes in alarm and looks down at her body. </p><p>“Did I have this much body hair when I got in? God, I really need to buy more razors…” She mutters, then tries to go back to relaxing in the warm shower. Another jolt of pain runs through her body, this time lingering around her jaw and teeth. She opens her eyes in alarm. “<em> Fuck, not again, this can’t happen again, it’s barely been a week-!” </em>This is the last thing that crosses her mind, before her thoughts explode into furious incoherence. </p><p>She tries to get up and get out of the shower, but falls over instead, finding herself on all fours. She tries to scream, but all that comes out is a strange, whimpering howl. Sounds of snapping and crackling fill the room as Elaine’s bones rearrange themselves in her body. The thing that now occupies the bathroom is no longer Elaine. One could argue that it was never Elaine to begin with, but in this moment it is less Elaine than it has ever been. Instead, it is a massive, furious wolf.</p><p>---------------------------------------------------------------------</p><p>Thank you for reading! I really hope you enjoyed this. I guess now I can go ahead and completely drop the pretense: this isn't slice of life, it's an angsty story about werewolves, witches, vampires, and all that other cool stuff that all the tumblr kids like. It might be something of a slow burn, but I aim to upload a chapter of roughly this size every monday or so. I appreciate any and all criticism of my writing, both about content and about format. You can leave comments here, or contact my tumblr page: </p><p>https://www.tumblr.com/blog/anarchist-lawnmower</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>